


Male Reader X The Slender Woman

by CampGreen



Category: Slender Man Mythos
Genre: F/M, Horror, Literature, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-12-03 08:11:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11528151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampGreen/pseuds/CampGreen
Summary: My first smut/horror installment that strays from movies and into Creepypasta. Don't expect me to stay here long, the only mythos I really care about are the Slender Man and SCP ones. The Slender Man was made by Victor Surge.





	1. The Woods

_"Oh, you're talking about that uhh... Polymetal Mining Facility, aren't you?"_

_"Yeah, that's the one."_

_"Plenty of urban legends surrounding that one. Anyone who neared it disappeared, same shit, different day. Twelve people was the count, I think. I've shot a few mineshafts before, they're huge, I'm sure you could get at least half an hour of footage outta that thing."_

_"Awesome, might check it out this weekend. And you said it was at the edge of the woods?"_

_"Yeah, should be like, an hour walk, from your place."_

_"And you think I'm gonna get any views if I just say 'disappearances'? Give me some good stuff."_

_"Alright, alright, shit, I dunno. The Slender Woman?"_

_"...who?"_

_"You don't know the Slender Woman? Geez, I know you're new to this whole creepy exploration thing but the Slender Woman is some by-the-books shit, man."_

_"Just tell me."_

_"You know, faceless woman in a business suit, snatches people up if they get too deep in the woods. Lots of formerly-disappeared people reported they were...filled up by the Slender Woman, by thoughts of worshiping her, like she brainwashed them or something. Cult kinda stuff, creepy shit. You should say it's rumored she's behind the disappearances, that'll get you a few extra views right off the bat."_

_"I dunno, seems a bit underhanded."_

_"Do you want people watching your footage or not? And plus, a lot of those disappearances were reported from your county anyways, so it's not even that much of a lie."_

_"Fine. Anyways, sorry for being a bit antsy, I just stayed up all last night editing last week's footage and I feel like death itself."_

Emily laughs. _"Yeah, the editing's the worst part. You'll get used to it though, I promise."_

_"Thanks for all the help, Emily. I'm heading off for tonight."_

_"Don't mention it. Night."_

You end the Skype call and sigh. The clock on your laptop only reads 8:50 PM. If you hurry up and leave now, it should take two hours to and from the mineshaft and an hour to shoot it, so you'd have seven precious hours of sleep until you have to go to the baby shower tomorrow morning. Then when you get home, you can edit and upload the footage. Knowing how time-sensitive your plan is, you hurry up and gather your things before you waste time thinking it through too much. You check the mineshaft on the map and throw your hoodie on. Armed with all you need - your camcorder, flashlight, and phone, you step off the porch of your rural home and venture out into the endless sea of trees covering the night-sunken country. 

The only thing you can hear are crickets chirping and the crunching of leaves and grass beneath your shoes as you explore the dark, lonely forest. You follow your flashlight's ray through the woods and feel a mixture of peace and dread. The quiet, dimly lit nature that surrounds you is calming and a nice breath of fresh air from society, yet the dark, empty nothingness that encloses you like a cage chills you to your bones. All of a sudden, you start to feel ill. There's a scratchy soreness in your throat, your nose is stopped up, and the muscles in your temple are twisted and aching. Of course you get a cold now of all times. Look on the bright side, maybe it'll worsen so you'll have an excuse to not attend the shower tomorrow. According to the map on your phone, you're beginning to near the mineshaft, so you slip the camcorder out of one of your hoodie pockets and get it warmed up with an atmospheric scan of the woodland as you tour it. 

Finally you arrive at the mineshaft, a towering, rickety old structure of solid wood, long abandoned by the team that built it. Another chill ripples through your spine when you remember that apparently a dozen people went missing around the ground you stand on. This is only your third video, and the other two were just old mansions, you're not used to your shooting locations having such weight to them. You shrug the fear off as superstition as you enter the facility. They're urban legends built to spice content like your videos, nothing more. The upper floor of the facility is nothing juicy, just something that looks to be the brew of a barn interior and a cluttered storage room. You walk down a flight of wooden stairs to get to the real meat of both the mineshaft and the video - the tunnels. A large network of underpasses, held up by wooden frames and beams and strewn with hung lanterns with some minuscule flickers of life still in them, rusty minecarts, and old railings embedded into the dirt at your feet. As you start your exploration of the system, you feel something leak over your lips. You dab below the nose and see a smear of fresh blood on two of your fingers. Now that's really odd. Perhaps the side effect of a medication you take? You quickly shrug off the distraction, not wanting to have to edit the pause out later.

You try to get as many varied shots of the facility as you can without going too deep. The tunnels are maze-like, the last thing you'd need is to get lost down here. Your camcorder is no digital movie camera but you're still truly wowed by how crystal clear and scenic the walls, floors, and ceiling of the mineshaft look even after filtered through the lens. You've really hit the jackpot this time, you're confident YouTube will love this. But then all of a sudden a flicker of static disrupts the footage. You almost audibly groan upon realizing you have something else to edit out, but it happens again. Then again. At this point, you could market it off as an intentional thing to keep your viewers on their toes, making your job much easier and the video a bit more interesting. Some mistakes were built to last. But the more it happens, the more you start feeling concerned for the health of this thing. You bought it about two months ago, the battery's fine, and you've treated it well, it's not like you've ever dropped it. You spent a solid five hundred dollars on it, and it's glitching out like this? You start to get annoyed and hurry back out the mineshaft after finding nothing new to film after a while. It would've been great if a creepy noise or two had echoed throughout the tunnels but you suppose the whole glitchy camera gimmick would be enough to hold the viewers over. 

You feel relieved to step another foot out onto the forest floor again. That place was starting to give you a stuffy feeling. You take a glance at your phone again to get a sense of direction, and start heading back home. As you take another midnight stroll though the woods, your camcorder is suddenly bombarded with blankets of static and disruption like a magnet scrambling a computer monitor. What the hell is wrong with this thing? Maybe Emily would know, she's tech savvy. She's probably deep asleep by now, you'll bother her tomorrow and pray the video file isn't as corrupted as the lens is. Just as you're about to lower the camera, you see something swimming in the sea of white noise. A...person. A chalk-white person whose attire blends into the darkness of the forest. You rip your eyes out from the overlay of the camcorder and see nothing but trees. Right before you think you're so tired and paranoid you're hallucinating, your nose starts pouring blood like a fountain. 


	2. The Slender Woman

You cover your face with your palm and start jogging back to your house. What the fuck is happening to you? As you hurry, your eyes can't help but rapidly scan every inch of forest they can process. The trees form a web, a web that could be hiding something, anything from behind itself. You start seeing blank, white flashes among the thousands of blackened trunks and it sends you into a sprint. You have to get back home, once you get home, you'll be safe, safe from the tangled pen of the woodland crushing your freedom, sadistically stretching your claustrophobia and mind. There's something watching you. You can feel their eyes burning into the back and sides of your head. Just get back home, it can't see you through walls and doors. Oh God, is it...is it her? The thing Emily spoke of like a campfire story? It feels as if your lungs have been soaked in gasoline and lit aflame. You're no athlete, but you wouldn't normally be this exhausted over such a short run. This cold just might get you killed, as if the universe intends for you to succumb to your stalker by any means necessary. Everything feels cloudy, choppy, and quiet, like a fever dream snaking through your brain and torturing it. Maybe that's what all of this is, just a horrible fever dream that you'll soon be freed from. 

You feel an awful churning in the pit of your stomach and sides of your throat, and you collapse to the leaves in the grass. Finally, your terrible condition reaches a boiling point and you heave every ounce of substance your stomach has to offer out onto the forest floor. Eyes smothered in tears, you wipe your vision clean and expect to see green chunks flowing through the grass. You see red chunks instead. You go limp and slosh in pain as you realize the presence of this thing is mangling each and every one of your functions like a walking irradiated wasteland. You have just enough strength to rise to your feet and hold yourself up only on the nearest tree trunk, but by then, your stalker has already cornered you. It chased the life out of you and now has you pressed against the bark of a tree like a sick dog who knows it's about to be put down. Now that you're face to face, you can fully fathom what kind of Lovecraftian abomination you've been pitted against. 

Its face is nothing. Just a blank canvas with humanoid contours, like a mannequin. Just like a mannequin, in fact, as enforced by the complete lack of hair, movement, and deathly pale skin. The thing is dressed in a black business suit, which helps it blend into the forest it lurks in, like camouflage. These woods are its home, and you've disturbed it with your childish curiosity. The strangest thing about the eldritch horror, however, is its shape. Its well-endowed, womanly torso combined with its hips make it seem like a well-dressed hourglass. You kinda want to call the beast attractive, thanks to this, thanks to those massive bulges underneath that tie and the supermodel-esque curves under said massive bulges. However, any possibility of your low, pathetic standards distracting you are destroyed when all of a sudden a quartet of black tentacles, each looking to be around seven feet in length, sprout from its back as if it were an octopus. The four wet, smooth tendrils slink around your wrists and ankles before tightening like the restraints on an electrical chair and spreading you wide so you're suspended several feet up in the air like a trophy on a wall. You're a bug caught in a spider's web, about to be devoured whilst paralyzed by the thick, slimy threads entangling you. Another tendril slithers up one of your legs and hooks onto your waistline, slowly dragging your pants and underwear down your moist, trembling knees. A curious snake, the tendril fastidiously inspects your genitals, nudging at your balls like a kid poking a dead animal with a stick and making you squeal in tenderness. It slides under your scrotum and snakes up your taint, making you shudder in a mixture of delight and fear. A sixth tendril wraps around the zipper on your hoodie and slides it all the way down, leaving your sticky torso bare and out in the open. It meanders past your belly button and up your sternum, brushing past one of your hard nipples and making you flinch. Then it loosely wraps around your neck as if it were gently strangling you. 

Then they fill you up. 

The two tendrils that have scrutinized each halves of your body strike, viciously stuffing your anus and mouth in a precise, devastating attack on your mind, body, and soul. One shoots up your rectum and the other shoots down your throat, and the other four tentacles have you in such a robotically stiff lock you can't even squirm. This is the absolute worst hell you could ever possibly imagine. It feels like your neck and pelvis are gonna burst from the pressure, every nerve in your system is molested, violated, and defiled ruthlessly as you're raped inside and out. The tentacles finally slacken from digging you out and suck back out of your body. You'd throw up again if your stomach wasn't so desolate. The other tendrils follow their example and free your battered body. You fall to the ground and can feel the synapses in your brain snapping like wires in response to the trauma. Your eyes land at the feet of the monster - a pair of shiny black dress shoes. Your gaze drags up, and she returns it. Your mind almost feels foolish to call the thing a she, but gets too busy looking at her face, or lack of therefore, staring at yours. 

With her hands, the Slender Woman unbuttons her suit to let her enormous breasts free, slips off her shoes, and drags down her dress pants, exposing her thick, colorless legs for you to marvel at as you flicker in and out of consciousness. You're so broken you can barely even lust after her superhumanly perfect body, but regardless your penis trembles at the sight of it so up close. Her colossal, jiggly ass-cheeks crash down onto your face, and she rests her chest on yours as she bends over. The silky texture of solid cashmere and her nipples from her overflowing breasts rub against your abs as the cold leather glove of the Slender Woman wraps around your shaft, forced into a throb from the cyclone of sensitive nerves raging in your body. The divine sensations from the handjob confuses your shattered mind further, and your toes start to coil in your shoes as the emanating pain crippling your body is interrupted with a steady stream of something resembling pleasure. You instinctively dig your fingertips into her gelatinous butt-cheeks as they sit atop your chin just to give yourself something to cling onto the more intense the pleasure gets, and finally, she manages to squeeze out a climax after pumping your cock up and down for a minute or two. You had hoped the orgasm would've somehow settled the pain by a bit but the twisting of muscles only made your suffering sharper, and stained the Slender Woman's face with two nuts worth of cum. 

Wiping herself clean with a handkerchief, she inverts her position from atop your twinkling, mostly nude body so the two of you are eye-to-eye, and she clutches your face, making your skin shiver against the coldness of her gloves. Your mind gets lost in her face, it's like a beautiful blank canvas you can paint anything on. No limitations, no boundaries, no standards. Just you, and her, reflected in the infinite mirror that is her gorgeous, perfect face. The radiating, horrendous pain that stings your prostate, bladder, throat, and soul slowly morphs into a dull blissfulness. The handjob got the ball rolling and now you're slipping into an endless ocean of ecstasy. You feel a wet coldness trickling down every orifice in your body. Your eyes, your nostrils, your mouth, your ears, your rectum, your urethra. It's blood. Draining out of your body as if it's cleansing itself to be replaced with something else. Something better. You love the Slender Woman and the ~~terrible~~ beautiful things she's done to your body. No, love is a petty word. You're devoted to this woman, everything in your soul, the seed she planted in you is telling you to treat her like the center of a religion. You worship this woman, this woman is your goddess and you will do any and everything you can to carry out her bidding. She has no mouth but you can hear her divine, angelic voice soothing your mind, whispering you pleasantries so meaningful, so ethereal you couldn't possibly put them to any physical words.

The Slender Woman is your goddess, and you are her proxy.  



End file.
